


Noticed

by nearly_there



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, post-3x01
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-12-16 16:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21039164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nearly_there/pseuds/nearly_there
Summary: In which Anne Shirley-Cuthbert is the unwilling and unwitting recipient of: 1) a notice, and 2) feelings.





	1. Chapter 1

I 

She ought to have noticed that something was different. Truly, she should have — Anne was by no means an unobservant girl (most of the time) and the other girls were by no means subtle. But perhaps it had been the way ice had formed on the trees that morning, the way a thin layer of frost had coated those green needles, the way the winter sun had shone on them just so. The sight of nature in its wintery splendour had left Anne distracted and out of breath when she stepped up the creaky wooden steps and into the warm clamour of the schoolhouse.

Diana was waiting by Anne’s hook.

“I missed you this morning, my friend,” Anne said, unwrapping the scarf around her neck with chilly fingers. “I’m sorry we couldn’t walk together — Jerry’s home sick and I wanted to help Matthew with some chores, you know how it is. Oh, but I just had the most _scrumptious_ walk—”

But there was a worried knot between Diana’s eyebrows. “Anne,” she started.

Anne stopped. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Diana said quickly. “Well, not exactly nothing. There’s something you need to know.”

“I’m listening,” Anne said, but there was suddenly two hands wrapped around her arm and pink lace pushing into her peripheral vision.

“Anne’s here!” Ruby called over her shoulder, curls bouncing. “Why hello, Anne. You’re _late_ today. Come on, we’ve all been waiting for you—” And then Anne was being pulled away from the residual chill by the doorway and into the classroom, where students were milling about. She had the sudden sense that this was, perhaps, not unconnected to what Diana was about to tell her, and she felt a sinking in her stomach as she saw all the other girls beckon the three of them over with Cheshire cat grins.

“What’s going on?” was all she could muster once she’d been dragged over, Diana trailing behind helplessly.

“Remember when you said were going to be _the bride of adventure_?” Tillie said. The girls all laughed delightedly.

“Yes, of course,” Anne said. She felt Diana’s hand touch her shoulder. “Why?”

“Oh, it’s so exciting!” Ruby cried.

“Maybe you won’t be an old maid after all,” Josie said.

“You’ll _love it_, Anne,” Jane said, clasping her hands. “It’s so _you_.”

“I don’t know what you’re all talking about,” Anne said with great feeling, though she increasingly felt like she knew precisely what they were talking about. Unbidden, she found herself glancing towards Gilbert, on the other side of the aisle, all dark curls and grey wool as he leaned over a medical tome. And if she felt any hint of strange longing in that moment, it was only because Gilbert was a rare friend who did not indulge in gossip and kept himself removed from the tumultuous going-ons that had been plaguing their school in recent months.

As their classmates were increasingly caught up in the unique sort of lunacy that adolescence seemed to inspire, Gilbert seemed to be among the last bastions of sanity within the schoolhouse. She admired it, that steadiness: the way he was always forward-facing, hands reaching towards his vocation. Instead of writing silly notices and chasing skirts — instead of stumbling over his words like Moody or pining relentlessly like Ruby — he was aspiring for something bigger than schoolhouse romance.

Anne wished she could say the same about anyone else these days. Anyone other than Diana, who had tired of unwanted attention far before the recent surge of insanity had begun. 

Anne turned to her friend.

“It’s the Take Notice board,” Diana said gently, looking sympathetic. “Someone wrote one about you, Anne.”

&

_Anne Shirley-Cuthbert is the smartest girl in school,_ the note said in a scrawl that was neither tidy nor untidy. She stared at it, aghast, unable to believe her eyes.

“Someone’s in love with you,” Ruby told her, wide eyed. “Anne, isn’t this just marvelous?”

It didn’t feel marvelous.

During class, whenever Anne was called upon to answer a question or read a passage, Josie took to theatrically swooning, while Tillie would say, “You’re so _smart_, Anne,” at a volume that was conveniently loud enough for the whole room to hear. From the way the other students giggled, it was clear that everyone had taken notice of the board’s newest occupant, as plain and unassuming as the slip of paper and the handwriting had been. Miss Stacy, for her part, looked sympathetic. But the fact that even their teacher had heard the news meant that Anne’s strange and unexpected humiliation was complete.

“It’s definitely Charlie’s handwriting,” Jane said during lunch, eyes wide. “I had to transcribe his article for the newspaper two weeks ago, the one about his grandfather’s ghost and the cows, and it’s a perfect match.”

Anne glanced towards the back of the classroom and caught the side of his hurriedly turned head, his reddening ears. She glanced down at her pecan tart, all appetite lost.

“Are you going to take pity on that poor boy?” Josie drawled.

“You should talk to him,” Ruby said. “Oh, Anne, he tries so hard. I think he likes you terribly.”

“Anne doesn’t have any obligation to talk to him if she doesn’t want to,” Diana said.

“She does if she doesn’t want to _die alone_,” Josie said. “Just because _you_ ignore all the boys who are falling over themselves for you doesn’t mean that everyone has the luxury.”

“I think you should at least give him a chance,” Tillie said. “How do you know that you won’t like him if you get to know him better?”

“Oh, Charlie’s so... Charlie,” Jane said. “Think of how difficult it must have been for him, to muster up the courage to say something.”

“If Gilbert had written _me_ that note,” Ruby said. “Why, I would have died happy then and there. Even though I’m convinced he’s still waiting for a much bigger, more romantic gesture. It would be nice, that’s all.”

“Sure, Ruby,” Josie said.

It wasn’t necessarily that Anne disliked the Take Notice board. She thought it entertaining. Perhaps she even enjoyed it — after all, she had giggled along with the other girls when Moody had clumsily penned sappy love poetry to Diana the day before and when Paul L. and Paul F. had engaged in a war of compliments to win Tillie’s heart just the other week. But, Anne had never expected to be the recipient of any such note. For all her indignance in the face of Josie’s talk of spinsterhood and old maids, Anne had always expected that she would never attract the attention of, well, _anyone_.

And now that she had apparently done just that, instead of elation or even relief, all she felt was an odd, ugly dread, low in her stomach. This wasn’t the sort of reaction that Anne had ever read about in romantic novels. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to feel. Wasn’t she supposed to feel elation? A fluttering in her chest? _Romance?_

But, then again, Anne was no heroine. At least, not the heroine of some great romantic novel. Perhaps she shouldn’t expect those things — perhaps love, for normal people, was nothing more than the indication of interest, an eventual reciprocation. The natural progression of things.

She was pulled out of her thoughts by a shadow falling over her and a sudden silence around her. She looked up.

Gilbert Blythe was standing over them with his hands in his pockets and an unusually reticent expression on his face. Across the circle, Ruby was staring up at him through her lashes with wide, bright eyes, mouth open.

He said, “Anne, can I talk to you?”

Eager to leave all talk of the notice behind, she scrambled to her feet and smoothed down her skirt. “Yes, of course,” Anne said, and followed him across the room, avoiding Diana’s knowing expression as she stood, sending an apologetic look at Ruby, and carefully not glancing in Charlie’s direction as they strode past him and into the coatroom.

“Care for a walk?” Gilbert said, reaching for his jacket.

“There are few things I’d appreciate more than a good walk,” Anne said, reaching for her scarf.

“Good.” He finally smiled at her, eyes crinkling. And if she felt suddenly warm, it was only because she was anxious to leave the stifling schoolhouse gossip behind, to feel the wintery afternoon sun on her face. She turned around to pull on her own coat, and, when she turned back around to face him, Gilbert’s expression had shifted from his warm grin to something quieter.

When he caught her looking, his expression transformed once again.

Gilbert gestured to the door. “After you,” he said, and they stepped out into the distant sunlight.

&

Their walks had begun last October, once school had resumed after weeks and weeks of harvest. Miss Stacy had approached Anne and Gilbert with the idea of a newspaper — one written and managed and produced solely by the students of the Avonlea school. The newspaper, Miss Stacy had said, would be an excellent opportunity for everyone to grow and create something that was wholly their own. Something they could take pride in and share with the rest of Avonlea. Anne, who had been sold on the idea as soon as Miss Stacy had uttered the word “newspaper” had agreed immediately; Gilbert had agreed too, with a pleased little smile on his face. And the rest was history.

Miss Stacy had left them in the schoolhouse to plan. But the leaves had already begun to change colour and the fields around them had been a pretty portrait of yellows and oranges and reds, so it had felt like a shame to stay inside. When Gilbert suggested a stroll, Anne (distracted by the maple tree by the stream and filled with an inexplicable nervous energy as the two of them sat alone in the quiet building) had leapt at the idea.

Anne could scarcely recall why the walks had continued in the months since, but they had become something of a tradition — a chance for the two of them to discuss article ideas and logistics away from the prying eyes of their classmates. As partners in the management of their newspaper. As friends, finally. 

And she would never admit it to him aloud, but Anne was glad for Gilbert. She was glad that they were a team. While anyone could clearly see that the biological sciences were where his heart lay, he had an appreciation for words that many others did not, speaking of Whitman and Emerson with familiarity and fondness. And whereas Anne was one for big, lofty ideas and fanciful goals, Gilbert truly had a head for business — sense and practicality in spades, which Anne would have called _unromantic_ in anyone else. But perhaps they completed each other in this way; perhaps they made a good team, the two of them.

“I should thank you for saving me back there,” she said, now, admiring the robin’s egg blue of the sky. 

“I saved you?” he asked. She could hear the smile in his voice. “From what?”

_I’m not a Take Notice kind of guy,_ he’d told her all those weeks ago, wearing an expression that told Anne that she’d somehow put her foot in her mouth again. Anne, in turn, had been left feeling wounded and confused for reasons she could not understand.

“It’s nothing,” she said, kicking at a piece of ice on the ground. “Nothing of any consequence,” she continued when he looked at her dubiously.

“That doesn’t sound like nothing,” he replied.

Anne heaved a sigh, breath misting in front of her. “Just idle gossip. You know how it is — there’s been plenty of that going around these days. Except, I seem to be involved this time. Quite against my will, of course. Not that _that_ matters to anyone — it’s all anyone wants to talk about around here. I think I must be surrounded by a flock of future Mrs. Lyndes; that’s the only explanation—”

Gilbert stopped. “Anne,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made her pause.

She glanced over at him. “What is it?”

He was staring at the ground between them and shifting on the soles of his feet, which was unusual for him, put together as he usually was. There was an expression on his face, nearly recognizable, as if he were leaning over a slate, chalk in hand, and considering a math problem he just couldn’t solve. But there was something else to it. Something young and fragile and tremulous. After pulling in a long breath, he looked up at her.

_His eyes were full of romance_, she heard Ruby say, quite unhelpfully, in her mind’s eye as she met his. And even more unhelpfully was a second voice: _You know Gilbert has a crush on you, right?_

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Gilbert said, voice low, eyebrows drawn together. He was closer than she had noticed before, his irises the shade of rich, loamy soil in the mid-afternoon light. If she reached out with a gloved hand, she could grasp his, the way she had in Charlottetown all those years ago when an uneasy truce was forged. But they were older, now, and different in unquantifiable ways. And yet: something had changed in her that day, just as she felt something changing in her now.

“Yes?” Anne said, voice quiet underneath the sudden pounding of her heart in her ears.

“You told me,” he said, “that the Take Notice board was a way to make a declaration of quiet attention. Something unambiguous and clear without the potential for misunderstanding.”

“That’s true,” she replied faintly.

He seemed to struggle with his words. “I don’t think I’m the kind of guy to write one,” he said. “But even I can see the appeal of something like that. The... clarity of it all. Lately, I’ve been thinking that — perhaps — I haven’t been clear enough with you. About who you are to me, and what I want. Maybe we’ve been misunderstanding each other all this time. I hope we have.”

“Gilbert,” Anne said. “What on earth are you saying?”

“I want to know your thoughts,” he said. “I’d like to know your feelings.”

“My feelings,” she repeated, dumbstruck, and was silent for a handful of heartbeats.

Gilbert pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. He exhaled a rueful huff of air. “I’ve gone about this all wrong,” he said, shaking his head. “Forget all that. What I suppose I wanted to ask first is... about that notice that was posted. What do you think of it?”

She felt a shock of coldness, like a rush of arctic wind. He was talking about Charlie’s notice. Of course. It made perfect sense — after all, Gilbert was friends with Charlie, wasn’t he? And, like any good friend would, he was trying to determine whether or not Charlie had posted in vain. Because, while Gilbert himself was not a Take Notice sort of boy, Charlie was. And whereas Charlie was soft-spoken and shy, it was only natural that he should seek out the help of Gilbert, who had become a friend to Anne in recent years.

Anne should have expected this, instead of allowing her mind to run rampant, instead of getting caught up in a moment of her own invention. She truly had an unruly imagination, as Marilla had said time and time again. It had only been a matter of time before she cut herself on its razor-sharp edge.

What she didn’t expect was the disappointment, settling heavy and sour in her stomach.

She must have been silent for too long, because Gilbert said, “Anne?”

“You can tell Charlie that I’ll consider his notice,” Anne said, perhaps too sharply, “even without anyone vouching for him.” If that was what Gilbert wanted to hear, then she would say it to him, if only so that he would leave her in peace.

Gilbert’s eyebrows rose. “I — you — _Charlie_ wrote it?” he said. He looked as if he were at a loss for words, arms hanging limply at his sides. It was a long moment before he continued. “You’re... interested, then? In Charlie?”

“That is no one’s business but my own,” she retorted, frustrated with the girls’ urging, frustrated with Charlie’s _feelings_ and, inexplicably, frustrated with Gilbert’s efforts to help a friend. For good measure, she added: “I’m not _obligated_ to like anyone simply because they’ve indicated interest in me, Gilbert Blythe. And you’ll do well to remember that.”

His face shuttered in the fraction of a second, eyes hardening and jaw setting. “I know that, Anne,” he said, voice low. “Of course I know that.” And in that moment, she heard the echo of another exchange from a darker winter day: _And why is this about you?_ He had been so angry, then, as he’d turned away from her. But now, he looked more hurt than anything.

This time, it was Anne who turned away, walking towards the schoolhouse door as quickly as the snow would allow. She scrambled up the steps, already pulling off her scarf before she’d even darted through the entranceway, feeling cold and unsteady and _confused_. She entered the classroom — steadfastly avoiding Charlie’s eyes — and rejoined the girls, who looked at her expectantly as they ate tarts and chattered about Josie’s recent rendezvous with Billy. Diana reached over to touch her hand, eyes searching. Why did it feel as if everything had just gone horribly wrong?

From the window, through the frost, Anne could see the faint outline of Gilbert, still standing in the field, looking strangely lost amidst all that snow.

&

The next day, there was a new notice waiting for her.


	2. Chapter 2

II

The days that followed the initial notice were filled with similar notes, each penned in that same nondescript, boyish handwriting. _Anne Shirley-Cuthbert is always unafraid to speak her mind_, the second notice said. _Anne Shirley-Cuthbert has an incredible imagination_, said the third. The fourth was short, but to the point: _Anne Shirley-Cuthbert is pretty_.

It all felt like some horrible joke, though Anne knew that Charlie was far from the sort of person to prank anyone like that. No — Charlie had always been a silent presence in the classroom, one who had never teased Anne or laughed at Anne, even in those early days when she had been the laughingstock of Avonlea. Rather, he’d always been a silent but unexpectedly earnest presence who listened to Anne whenever she found herself rambling at _Charlie Sloane_, of all people.

And perhaps it was this earnestness that made everything worse. Anne could square off against all the Billy Andrews of the world — could verbally spar with all the Mrs. Lyndes, too — but somehow, in the face of that uncomfortable vulnerability, she felt very small.

With each passing day and each new parchment confession, the other girls grew more adamant that Anne should give Charlie Sloane a chance. According to Tillie, it was all in the way he stared at Anne during class, eyes peeking over book pages forgotten. For Ruby, it was the way he smiled at Anne every morning as she came in, and _always_ waited by the door to say goodbye to her after class. This, Anne did her best to acknowledge as little as possible before making her hasty escape into the winter air.

Josie was more pragmatic. “Charlie Sloane’s not the _worst_ you could do,” she had said. “And I’m not sure you should expect to do much better. Honestly, Anne, you can’t expect too much with these things — that’s what my mother always says. Though I suppose _you_ wouldn’t understand the way all of this works.”

Privately, Anne thought Josie’s philosophy certainly explained why the blonde had ended up courting Billy Andrews, of all people. (“_Anne_,” Diana had whispered back sternly, before the two had dissolved helplessly into giggles in Miss Stacy’s back room.)

But, laugh as Anne did about Josie’s whole ridiculous notion of love and expectation, something about that idea always gave her pause, though she hated herself for allowing it to trouble her to the degree that it did.

To make matters worse, ever since their disagreement in the snow, Anne and Gilbert had scarcely spoken two words to each other that that didn’t involve stilted sentences concerning newspaper business. As the week dragged on, long days filled with Charlie’s notices and the commotion that came with each one, Gilbert only seemed to grow quieter with something resembling sullenness, burying himself in encyclopedias and medical textbooks and scarcely surfacing for air. And, in turn, Anne found it harder and harder to speak with him — she found herself filled with a strange resentment that left her anxious and upset.

For the first time in a long time, it felt as if the two of them were back at square one, as if they had once again reverted back to the children who only ever seemed to know how to hurt each other’s feelings. Anne detested geometry — had always felt frustrated by its soulless shapes and angles — but she found herself wondering if this was what it meant to be a set of parallel lines: never converging, never crossing the distance between them into something closer.

&

Though Anne was, of course, perfectly capable of maintaining a professional relationship with Gilbert — even if the previous warmth of their partnership had dissolved into silence and injury — it was unmistakable that there was something different in the way the newspaper was run. Gone were those endless walks in which the two of them bounced ideas off one another. Gone were the quiet mornings where Anne, Gilbert, and Miss Stacy would read The Daily Telegraph, The Guardian, or The Toronto Star and discuss the news, all the while wondering at what their own little newspaper could become one day.

All things considered, it came as no surprise when Miss Stacy asked the two of them to speak with her at the end of the week. A week that had been the culmination of several afternoons of painfully unproductive Avonlea Gazette meetings in which little was said and even less was decided upon.

Miss Stacy studied them for a long moment, arms crossed, before heaving a sigh. “We have a problem,” she said, “concerning Charlie.”

Anne flinched, and from the corner of my eye it almost appeared as if Gilbert did too. “Miss Stacy—” she stammered.

But Miss Stacy interjected. “What I mean is,” her teacher said, “Charlie just submitted his ‘Getting to Know You’ piece, which I had hoped to publish in our next issue, after Diana’s extraordinary exploration of her ancestry. Regrettably, it isn’t in any sort of publishable quality yet. Far from it, in fact. Perhaps he’s been... distracted, as of late.”

“Right,” Gilbert said with an odd inflection in his voice. Anne felt her cheeks burn.

“I was hoping one of you would be willing to sit with Charlie,” Miss Stacy said, “several times a week to work with him on his article and help him with his writing. I don’t think it’ll be ready for our next issue, but we can at least shoot for the one after that.”

“Right,” Anne echoed as evenly as possible, hoping against all hope that Miss Stacy wouldn’t ask her, but already knowing the futility of it all.

This was how their roles often manifested themselves: as the resident arbiter of words, Anne focused more on the composition and content of articles and would assist their classmates with their pieces whenever necessary. Gilbert contributed his own stories and scientific interests, but also had a handle on logistics and management that ensured that their newspaper continued to run as a well-oiled machine. They complemented one another.

But all of that meant nothing now that the two of them were hardly speaking to one another and Anne’s own set of skills meant that she would likely have to personally assist Charlie when she had no interest in _getting to know him_.

“Do we have anything ready to print instead?” Gilbert asked. “Now that Charlie’s is out of the running?”

Miss Stacy shook her head. “No, we don’t, unfortunately. So this means that we’ll need another article written — one that will have to be ready by next Friday at the latest, to give sufficient time for the girls to add it to the paper before distribution. As such, I was thinking that you — Anne — would write the article while Gilbert workshops Charlie’s essay. Are there any objections?”

Relief hit her like a crashing wave. “None at all,” Anne said, faster than she’d ever said anything in her life. Marilla would be astonished. And before Miss Stacy could change her mind, she added, “It would be my absolute _pleasure_, Miss Stacy. Did you want it to be about anything in particular? There’s plenty I could write on Mi’kmaq basket weaving that didn’t make it into my last one; or perhaps I could cover the preparations for the county fair that are already underway—?”

“Perhaps something more seasonal would be appreciated,” Miss Stacy said. “I had a realization the other night, as I was looking at our schedule.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re releasing the issue on Valentine’s Day,” Miss Stacy replied with a wry smile. “Try to let that guide you, Anne.”

It seemed as if the entire universe was conspiring against her. “I—yes,” Anne said weakly, finding herself glancing at Gilbert only to find him already glancing away. There was a tense knot in her chest that just wouldn’t loosen. “Whatever you’d like, Miss Stacy.”

&

Diana was waiting for her near the entrance to the Haunted Woods, a sight for sore eyes dressed in blue; dark curls lovely against the stark white of the late January snow. Even after all these years, even in her exhaustion and frustration, Anne could never get used to the beautiful novelty of having someone waiting for her, of having someone to walk arm-in-arm through the forest with — someone who always wanted to see her and listen to all that she had to say.

“Oh it’s _horrible_, Diana,” Anne said underneath the crunching of snow against their feet and the crackling of tired branches. “Miss Stacy wants me to write a _Valentine’s Day_ feature. Me. Me, of all people! And _now_, of all times!”

“I’m sure that whatever you write is going to be amazing,” Diana said, comfortingly.

“But I,” Anne said, around a sudden lump in her throat. “I don’t know anything about _romance_, and I never particularly expected to. Not to mention, now that Charlie has feelings for me — or at least certainly _thinks _he does — it’s all going to be this big, horrible spectacle.”

“Ignoring the Charlie Issue,” Diana said, “Miss Stacy wouldn’t have assigned it to you if she didn’t trust you, Anne. And you’re perfectly capable of writing about love and romance, aren’t you? I happen to have it on good authority that you’ve penned plenty of romantic stories about princesses and their knights.”

“But that’s _different_,” Anne protested.

“How so?”

She’d been a child, then, dreaming of faraway castles and distant lands. Knights, ladies, and dragons slain. Starbursts and marble halls. Reading had once been her one true companion, and she’d spent so long fantasizing about rescue and transformation that the thoughts had consumed her. But that was all that they had ever been: fantasies. Fantasies that were not born from any true knowledge, insight, or expectation, but rather from the tender part of her soul that had still believed in fairy tales despite all evidence she had seen to the contrary.

And how could she go back to those days? To a time before she stumbled upon the beginnings of adulthood. To a time before she had experienced the strange, awful discomfort of someone else’s affections. To a time before she had stood across from Gilbert in that snowy field, close enough that she could almost count his eyelashes and freckles, and felt a sensation suspiciously like heartbreak.

“It just is,” was all she managed.

Diana only raised an eyebrow in response, infuriating and lovely all at once.

“It’s different and you know it,” Anne said indignantly. “_Those_ were just silly little stories about unrealistic romantic ideals, whereas _this_ — this is supposed to be a serious and dignified journalistic venture into the true nature of love.”

“I liked your silly stories,” Diana said, after a pause. 

“Me too,” Anne said. And, wistfully, she let herself think back to those endless afternoons in the cottage: Anne, Diana, Cole, and Ruby all huddled together underneath those faded planks, those hanging ornaments, those well-loved artifacts. She had always felt something like magic in the air, so tangible and _present_ that she could nearly taste it. She thought of Diana and Ruby, bickering over Albert or Hilbert or Rupert, or whatever latest iteration of Gilbert that Ruby had dreamed up. She thought of Cole, leaning over a sculpture, smoothing out its brow with a careful finger, just so — his own face smoothed into tender focus. It had all felt safe and comfortable in the way that those years had been, before all the growing pains that came with growing up and stumbling into something resembling adulthood. Things had been simpler then, when Anne’s greatest concerns were the colour of her hair, attending Aunt Jo’s party, and whether she could defeat Gilbert in algebra.

Almost as if Diana could read Anne’s mind — they were kindred spirits, after all — she asked, “How’s Gilbert?”

Heart hammering in her ears, Anne replied, “What does _Gilbert Blythe_ have to do with anything?”

Diana shrugged. “Nothing,” she said, with the hint of a smile and a glint in her eye.

“Which is precisely all that I have to say about him,” Anne said. “_Nothing_.”

“I was just wondering if the two of you had made up yet.”

“I think you know the answer to that one, Diana.” Her friend had, of course, been the first to notice that anything was amiss, long before their other classmates had caught wind of any usual coldness between Anne and Gilbert. What had transpired between Anne and Gilbert, even Anne herself could not quite say — though she suspected that Diana somehow understood their quarrel on some level, in much the same way that Diana always seemed to be aware of things that Anne could not even begin to recognize.

_Did Gilbert truly mean what you think he meant?_ Diana had asked her that first afternoon, when Anne was freshly bruised and aching from all the things she had said, all the things she had felt, all the things she had heard. Diana trailed off: _I thought..._

_I did too_, Anne had almost said back. _For a long, ridiculous, _preposterous_ moment, I did too. _

“Talk to him, Anne,” Diana said now, not for the first time.

“I wouldn’t even know what to say,” Anne confessed. And then the two of them let the beginnings of dusk lead them home.

&

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert’s feelings towards Gilbert Blythe were complicated, as they always had been. From the very beginning, starting with their chance meetings in the woods, he had served the dual role of both ally and obstacle. The years had only compounded this truth in manifold ways: Gilbert was smart and driven and _clever_, filled with knowledge and curiosity, always ready to banter, and constantly striving for something much greater than himself. And, above all, he was _good_: undiscriminating in his compassion and always ready to lend a helping hand. Whereas all these traits made Gilbert a kindred spirit, the sort who Anne could talk with for hours about nothing and everything all at once, they also made him a rival against whom Anne had always felt the need to prove herself.

Their quarrel — if she could even call it that — had not changed the complicated nature of her feelings towards him, but perhaps it had lifted some veil that had once gone unnoticed, revealing something strange and unquantifiable. Something that Anne could not help but dwell on, despite how much she wished to forget all about it.

The awful truth of the matter was that Gilbert had disappointed her somehow. And hurt her. With innocuous actions that should have done neither.

And, somehow, she had hurt him too. 

&

During her last visit, Marilla had promised Mary two hefty jars of her famous yellow plum preserves — which had always been a particular point of pride for Marilla and the Cuthberts — for a pie to be made in honour of Bash’s birthday. Anne, who visited Mary every Saturday, was tasked with bringing the jars over. In exchange, Mary promised the Cuthberts two pots of golden-brown Lacroix-Blythe honey — another sweet remnant of summer, which felt out of place in the dying light of January.

And Anne loved winter, she truly did, but she couldn’t help but think longingly of those summer months, when the world itself had seemed far more optimistic and full of wonder. Unconstrained by school and responsibility, she had been free to wander through the fields and forests, have tea with Diana, bake endlessly with Marilla, and work the fields at Matthew’s side.

She’d made a habit of visiting Mary, Bash, Gilbert, and especially Delphine, too, on lazy afternoons when there was nothing left to do at home. Those were fond afternoons spent sitting in that warm kitchen as sunlight filtered in through the windows; learning about all of the spices sent by Bash’s mother; playing with Delphine in the barn while Bash tinkered with the combine; laughingly watching as Gilbert sang sailor songs to the bees — later sneaking off together to taste unripe apples sweetened by honey underneath the unrelenting sun.

It all felt like an eternity ago. Particularly now, as Anne trudged down the icy walkway towards the Lacroix-Blythe home, shivering as she clutching Marilla’s preserves against her chest. She had taken the long way from Green Gables in hopes of avoiding Gilbert, who always set off for Charlottetown at precisely nine o’clock every Saturday morning. They usually passed each other by — Gilbert on his way to his medical internship, Anne on her way to help Mary around the house — and would often stop to chatter as they made for their respective destinations.

But there was no sign of Gilbert today. Thankfully.

Mary opened the door just as Anne stepped onto the porch.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Mary said, pulling her into the warmth. The Lacroix-Blythe household was always full of warmth in more ways than one — whereas Marilla took pains to ensure that Green Gables was neither too hot nor too cold, Mary was far more liberal with her heating. _You know how Sebastian is_, she would say, rolling her eyes and smiling all at once. But now, she looked disapproving: “Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, you’re freezing!”

“I — wanted to enjoy the weather,” Anne said, teeth still chattering.

“_Enjoy the weather?_” Mary said, unwrapping Anne’s scarf. “You mean freeze to death?”

“You’re starting to sound like Marilla.”

“She visits too much — bless her soul,” Mary said, ushering Anne into the kitchen. “I’d be lost without her. You too, Anne, which is why I can’t have you dying from hypothermia on me. Do I make myself clear?”

“I can assure you I’ve survived far worse,” Anne replied, smiling. 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Mary asked. “Now, sit down and I’ll make you some tea. And then I’ll teach you my special cinnamon loaf recipe.”

&

Once the bowls were cleaned, the loaf was set to bake, and the laundry was set out to dry, they were left with nothing left to do but to tidy up the kitchen, begin lunch preparations, and wait as the smell of butter and cinnamon filled the air. Delphine lay sleeping in the next room over, an angel wrapped in a cocoon of cotton sheets, and the house was quiet save for the occasional creaking of boards against the wind.

“How’s school been treating you?” Mary asked, above the noise of her knife against the cutting board.

Anne sighed gustily, wiping down the table with, perhaps, more vigour than the task required. “Adolescence continues to be a trial by fire.”

“That bad, huh?” Mary said. “I remember being sixteen. I don’t envy what you’re going through, that’s for sure.”

“It’s _exhausting_,” Anne replied. “Everyone’s only ever interested in courting or matchmaking or _both_.”

“That sounds about right,” Mary said, smiling and shaking her head, all laugh lines and dimples. “Jocelyn was always crazy about boys when we were younger. It used to drive me up the wall, until I became crazy about them as well.”

“You too? _Truly_?”

“I got over it pretty fast, times being what they were. But it happens to the best of us, you know.”

“Not me,” Anne said. “And not in a million years. The other girls can swoon over boys all they like, but I won’t have any part in it.” She thought of Ruby and Tillie and the easy ways in which they fawned over boys. The ways they wore their hearts on their sleeves. The ways they cared so openly, so completely, so honestly — letting themselves get swept up in the pure thrill of it all. She thought of Mr. and Mrs. Lynde and how they orbited each other. She thought of Mary and Bash and their easy affection, their obvious love for one another, the way they both lit up whenever they were in the same room. She thought, _I could never have that_.

She thought of Charlie and the quiet, hopeful way he looked at her, and the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was back.

And then her mind flashed, unbidden, to another brown-haired boy. 

“Speaking of which,” Mary said, eyebrow raised and expression pointed, “I’ve been told that _someone_ broke Gilbert’s heart this week. Care to tell me what that’s all about, Anne?”

Her breath caught in her throat, so suddenly that she nearly choked on it.

Gilbert? _Heartbreak_? How could she have _missed it_—?

But perhaps it made sense in retrospect: the quietness, the studying, the sullenness. The way she would glance in his direction by chance, only to find him staring off into space with an inscrutable look on his face. Perhaps she had been wrong about Gilbert and his apparent immunity to romance. Maybe he wasn’t a skirt-chaser like the other boys, who so brazenly sought affection, but rather pined after someone in his own silent way.

And what a friend Anne had been, these past few days — petty and confused and inexplicably wounded over _nothing_. Perhaps he had needed someone to speak to. Someone to walk with, someone to understand the burdens on his heart. She could have been that person for him, had she not been so tortured by what had transpired between them. By all the things that hadn’t.

“I don’t know,” Anne managed, fumbling with the cloth in her hand. “I had absolutely no idea he even _had_ a girl he liked, much less someone he was interested in enough to pursue.”

A girl who Gilbert liked enough to be heartbroken over. A girl did not return his feelings. Gilbert Blythe, who all the girls at school admired, who Anne had never imagined would ever have trouble with romance. Gilbert Blythe, who was as universally loved as Anne had once been universally detested. Gilbert Blythe, who had sounded almost as if he were confessing to her in that snowy field, close enough that she could have reached out to hold his hand, eyes warm and wide and nervous—

When she looked back up, Mary’s expression was open and surprised. She looked as if she were seeing Anne for the first time. “You don’t know,” Mary said, softly. “Of course you don’t know, you sweet, silly girl.” And perhaps she saw something in Anne’s own expression, because she suddenly looked sympathetic, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Anne’s ear.

“What do you mean?” Anne asked, voice hushed.

Mary only shook her head and said, “Ask him about it, Anne. Please.”

&

It was nearly noon by the time their work was done: the loaf was baked, lunch was in the making, and the Lacroix-Blythe homestead smelled of sugar and spices. Anne had promised Marilla she’d be home by midday, so Mary reluctantly gave up on enticing her with the simmering pot of curry that had taken residence in the oven, and made Anne swear that she would go straight home instead of getting distracted and catching her death in the frigid air.

As Mary tended to Delphine (who had begun to stir and murmur sleepily) in the next room, Anne was left alone in the kitchen, listening to Mary’s distant chatter carry down the hallway. Through a frost-coated window, Anne could see the expanse of the old Blythe orchard, covered in a blanket of white. At the edge of the farm, where Lacroix-Blythe land ended and woodland began, she could faintly see a small clustering of graves, where Gilbert’s father now lay. It all made her think of another winter, long ago, when she had peered through these same windows to find the empty shell of a house, white cloths draped like ghosts overtop all the things that made a house feel like a home.

But the house had changed in the intervening years, just as surely as Anne had too: it was so full of life now, so full of love. There was always laughter, crackling embers, and the smell of hot food. All coldness and tragedy, all hollowness from its empty years, had been chased out by the tenacity and delirious happiness of a new family coming together and finding their way in the world.

It had been chased out by Gilbert, who had lost everything and yet returned to Avonlea with such purpose and ambition. With such a capacity for good, and the desire to do it. With the sort of open heart that would invite a new friend into his home and community.

The house creaked, as if hearing her thoughts. Anne blinked, and it all came back to her: Mary’s singing, the smell of curry, the heat of the kitchen, and the time. Then, as luck would have it, she turned away from the windowsill—

—only to find Gilbert standing in the doorway, a light dusting of snow on his head and shoulders, a bundle of firewood in his arms, and a disarmed expression on his face. She fought the sudden urge to brush away the snowflakes, already melting, from his curls. And then she shivered from something that was not cold.

“Gilbert!” she blurted out.

“Anne,” he replied, slowly.

“I — you — shouldn’t you be in Charlottetown?” she asked.

“I didn’t end up going today,” he said, setting the wood against the wall. “Dr. Ward is attending a conference in St. John’s this week, so Bash and I have been out in the fields, preparing for spring.”

“I see,” she said, voice feeling high and reedy and thin. He had told her about that conference before, voice filled with excitement, wondering about all the unexpected and fascinating things Dr. Ward would tell him when he returned. “I was just — heading home. With Marilla’s honey.”

His eyebrows furrowed as he eyed the aforementioned honey. He gestured at the bottles. “Do you need any help with those?”

“No,” she said, too quickly. His frown deepened, and Anne felt a pang of guilt. Despite the awkwardness that hung between them now, he had offered to help, because that was the sort of boy Gilbert was. And, in response, she had put her foot in her mouth again. “Not that I don’t appreciate your offer,” she backtracked. “What I mean is, Mary was already kind enough to lend me a basket to carry them home. Plus, I’m stronger than I look, you know.”

At that, Gilbert gave her a small smile — the first such smile in a long time. It felt like sunlight peeking out between clouds after weeks and weeks of snow and frost and overcast. It transformed his face, erasing all traces of the quiet, stony Gilbert who she had become familiar with in recent days.

“I didn’t doubt that for a second,” he said, eyes crinkling. Anne found herself helplessly smiling back as if through muscle memory. “I’ve felt that strength head-on, after all.”

“That was _years_ ago,” she protested. And then, after a short pause, she added: “I’m much stronger now.”

For this, Anne was rewarded with a true laugh. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said.

In that moment, it felt as if everything was as it was supposed to be. As if everything were as simple as it had once been. With a sudden pang, she realized that she had missed this: the easy camaraderie, the silly back-and-forth. Grinning at each other underneath the pale light of the sun. Perhaps she had treasured this without even realizing it.

And, for a second, she found herself thinking: maybe it didn’t matter if Gilbert wanted her to court Charlie, or that he was in love with some girl — maybe _this_ was more important than hurt feelings and arguments in the snow. Maybe their friendship, and the uneasy path they had taken to camaraderie, mattered more than any petty squabble, or the fact that Gilbert liked a girl enough to have his heart broken over her, or the confusing feelings evoked by that mere thought—

Then Delphine began to cry from the living room, a sharp, high wail that pierced the silence, and the spell was broken.

“Right — well, I should probably get going,” Anne said, heart thudding inexplicably in her chest.

Gilbert nodded, expression shuttering. “Of course,” he said, evenly.

She turned around to grab her things, gathering the jars in Mary’s intricately woven basket, and scrambled for the front door, calling out a hasty _goodbye! _for Mary and Delphine. She pulled on her coat, stepped into her boots, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and braced herself for the cold.

But then, hand on the doorknob, instead of pulling it open and stepping out into the icy air, Anne stopped as if by some invisible force. _Talk to him, Anne_, Diana had said, just yesterday, voice hushed underneath the crunching of snow below their feet.

“Gilbert!” she said, before she even knew what she was saying, spinning around to catch him—

—only to find him still standing there in the hallway, only a handful of steps away, dark curls framed by the white glow of the kitchen, snowflakes already melted on his hair and shoulders. He was watching her with a melancholy expression that rapidly morphed into one of surprise.

And maybe it did matter. All of it. Gilbert’s support of Charlie, Gilbert’s secret crush. The way Gilbert had hurt her that day, as they stood in the snow, cold wind nipping at their noses and ears. Maybe it all mattered in a way that Anne couldn’t pretend it didn’t — because Anne felt something that she had no name for, for a boy who meant so much to her. He was kindred spirit and challenger alike. He was a gravitational force. Pure electricity. A sturdy oak tree, roots digging deep, branches always reaching — kindness, vitality, and knowledge all at once.

But her friend was hurting, in a way that she had been too blind to recognize. And he’d taught her long ago, at the funeral of a man she had barely had the privilege of knowing, how to prioritize the feelings of others above her own. How to care for others in the selfless way that Gilbert did.

“I heard,” Anne started. She stopped, shaking her head. “...Well, it doesn’t matter what I heard. I just wanted to ask: are you alright?”

Gilbert stared at her for a long moment. “I’m alright,” he echoed finally, voice crackling like a dying ember, searching eyes never leaving hers.

“I’m glad,” she said. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. She tried to smile at him with as much levity as she could muster. “I’ll see you in school, Gilbert.” He only nodded in response, and she turned around once more to push on through the door, setting her shoulders (with a deep breath) against the strangest mixture of relief and longing that curled around her gut.

But she was stopped once again, this time by the sound of his voice calling her name. “Anne!”

She spun around once more, heart beating rabbit-fast. “What is it?” she managed.

The light had shifted and he was cast in a dull, grey — long shadows pulling and pushing along the hallway around him. He looked as if he wanted to say something, eyebrows creased the way they did in class when he was trying to summon the correct answer, the solution to a complex math problem. But then a second passed, and then two. He seemed to deflate. “Are you sure you don’t need any help with those?” Gilbert asked, weakly.

She found herself huffing out a laugh, half hysteria and half delirium. “I’m sure,” she said.

The cold afternoon air, when it hit her, was welcome against the flush of her skin and her still stumbling heart.

&

It would have been easier, Anne found herself thinking, kicking viciously at the snow on her walk home, if she lived in a world in which none of the events of the last week had transpired. If she didn’t hold the vision so clearly, so dearly, in her mind — the way Gilbert’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, the warm shade of his irises from close up, the curve of his lashes, the dimples of his cheeks.

&

Anne arrived back at Green Gables to much fussing from Marilla about her tardiness (though it was only half past twelve) and the chattering of her teeth (though Anne _had been perfectly dressed for the weather, Marilla_). And if she had meandered home, cheeks rosy, fingers stiff, and ears numb, too caught up in what had been said and what hadn’t been said — that was simply because she was anxious for some fresh air, and nothing more. 

Marilla served her a steaming bowl of stew and a sizeable portion of bread (both Matthew and Marilla having already eaten, on account of Anne’s tardiness). And it was as Anne was sitting down for lunch in the tranquility of Green Gables when a visitor suddenly burst into the kitchen.

“Anne!” Mrs. Lynde cried out. “Just the girl I wanted to see!”

“Hello to you too, Rachel,” Marilla said dryly.

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Lynde said, pulling off her gloves and jacket with a flourish. Her eyes were twinkling as she sat down across from Anne. “Oh, you’ll want to hear this too, Marilla. I’m sure of it.”

“Hear what?” Anne asked, though she had the sinking suspicion that she knew precisely what Mrs. Lynde wanted to gossip about.

“Well,” Mrs. Lynde said gustily, the way she did when she was about to tell a story that she particularly revelled in. She clasped her hands together. “I was just at the church, with some of ladies — we’re holding a service for poor Tommy Harrison and his lovely wife, I’m sure you’ve heard their terrible news — including one Mrs. Boulter (whose eye for decoration is only second to yours truly) and her daughter, Tillie, who told me some very _interesting_ things indeed.”

“Is that so,” Marilla said, glancing towards Anne, who felt her whole face turn hot.

“Mrs. Lynde, _please _don’t—” Anne started.

“She told me,” Mrs. Lynde continued on, unsympathetic to Anne’s rising humiliation (as unsympathetic as all the other girls at school, Diana excluded), “that the old Take Notice board is operational again. Oh, what fun! Do you remember those days, Marilla?”

“I try not to,” Marilla replied sourly, pouring Mrs. Lynde a cup of tea.

Mrs. Lynde cackled as she accepted the cup with a nod of her head. “Marilla and I were always popular with the boys in town,” she said to Anne. “Though Marilla did nothing to deserve it, with the way she acted towards them.”

“_Rachel_,” Marilla said.

“But I digress,” Mrs. Lynde said, waving a hand through the air as if brushing away cobwebs. “The reason for my visit — as I’m sure you’re wondering, Marilla — is because _someone_ posted about _Anne_! And she didn’t say a single word about it!”

“You can’t blame her for not wanting to say a thing to _you_,” Marilla said, hands on her hips. Mrs. Lynde only took a long sip of her tea, looking not the least bit chagrined. And when Marilla turned back to Anne, she looked thoughtful. “I can’t say I’m not curious, but you don’t have to tell who if you’d rather not, Anne. Especially not in front of Rachel.”

Across the table from her, Mrs. Lynde was practically vibrating in her seat.

Anne heaved out a sigh. “It was Charlie Sloane,” she said, cradling her face in her hands. “Charlie Sloane, of all people.”

“I thought it might be Gilbert,” Marilla said.

Anne was aghast. “_What?_” she cried. There was a sudden sour taste in her mouth. She felt light-headed.

“Oh, heavens, no,” Mrs. Lynde said, laughing. “No, no, no. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. _Charlie Sloane_. And a very fine, sensible choice, if you ask me.”

Anne turned to Mrs. Lynde. “_Sensible?_” she sputtered. “I mean, he’s nice, but — but so unremarkable. He doesn’t have a creative bone in his body. And he’s so quiet that I’ve hardly ever exchanged two words with him—”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Lynde said. “He’s _quiet_. He’ll be a good balance to your... exuberance, shall we say. No good marriage was formed by two talkers, that’s for sure and certain. Trust me, Anne; I know what I’m talking about — there’s a reason they call me Avonlea’s most prolific matchmaker, you know.”

“I,” Anne started, glancing between Mrs. Lynde and Marilla, who wore a concerned look on her face. “I don’t understand. A good match? Me and _Charlie_?” She couldn’t imagine ever feeling anything for Charlie beyond the uncomfortable sort of pity and embarrassment she felt whenever she saw him in class. He was _nice_, of course he was, but the thought of liking him — or _loving_ him — was truly beyond her imagination.

But... was this how it all worked? Wasn’t this at least _adjacent _to how Elizabeth Bennett felt towards Mr. Darcy, that first time they met?

Marilla opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs. Lynde was even faster. “Sometimes the best match is the unexciting match,” Mrs. Lynde said, sagely. “It’s like the difference between chocolate and potatoes. Will chocolate feed you? Yes, I’m sure it will. For a time. But will it _sustain _you? No, no, no. Of course not. Plus, we should be grateful for what we’re given — that’s what I always say.”

“Right,” Anne said, weakly, her own meal forgotten, appetite lost.

“Food for thought, is all,” Mrs. Lynde said, smiling.

Marilla looked disapprovingly between Anne and Mrs. Lynde for a couple heartbeats. “Right, well that’s enough of _that_,” Marilla said finally. “Anne, once you’re done eating, there’s plenty of work to be done in the barn.”

“I’ll finish eating later,” Anne replied, pushing herself away from the table. Her heart ached. “I’m not hungry.” But for a moment she wished that she was still at the Blythe-Lacroix house — eating hot curry with Mary, Bash, and Delphine.

And Gilbert too.

&

Miss Stacy’s promised Valentine’s Day piece felt like a practice in futility. Once the sun had set and the dishes had been cleared away, Anne found herself sitting at her desk, blank page illuminated by the warm glow of her lamp. Try as she might, she just couldn’t find the words that she wanted to write, and even the Pen of Possibility (or perhaps the Pen of Duplicity was more fitting) was woefully unobliging in her time of need.

It made her mind drift, unhelpfully, to another occasion: sitting at her desk, pen balanced between her fingers, writing _Dear Gilbert_ over and over again, until her fingers were blotchy with ink and her floor was littered with crossed-out words, crumpled parchment, and all the things she didn’t know how to say.

But this was different. Anne’s attempt at a letter had been an apology born from a sudden, startling revelation. She had been insensitive towards Gilbert — incapable of understanding loss, having never before possessed anything worth losing. She had been filled to the brim with shame, guilt, and the overwhelming need to make things right. It had all manifested in countless unfinished drafts that had each felt like pale reflections of her feelings.

Now was a different story altogether. Anne had no mission, no desire, no vision — nothing to compel her to put pen to paper and share her thoughts with the world. All she had was two main sources of anxiety that compelled her _not_ to write: one was Charlie Sloane, who it seemed as if the whole universe itself was telling her to consider. Perhaps he was her one chance at a suitor, since girls like her were never as lucky as girls like Diana or Tillie. Perhaps Mrs. Lynde was right — Marilla was always calling Anne too romantic and unrealistic for her own good, after all.

The other source of anxiety was Gilbert Blythe, for reasons she dared not examine.

She was pulled from her thoughts by a quiet knock at the door. And when the door opened, it was Marilla in her nightgown, hair down, and lamp clasped in one hand. This was the second such visit that night — Anne had been so visibly distracted during dinner that Matthew had come to her room afterwards. “Don’t think too much,” he had said, tapping her on her nose. Anne had smiled despite herself.

“I know,” she had replied.

But perhaps she hadn’t sounded very convincing, because the look he had given her in return was fond but disbelieving. But Matthew always knew when to leave well enough alone and had retreated into the dark hallway, bidding her goodnight as he went.

Marilla, now, wore a complicated expression upon her face as she stepped into the doorway, the kind she wore when she was thinking too hard about something. “What are you working on?” she asked.

“The piece that Miss Stacy asked me to write for Valentine’s Day,” Anne sighed. “Not that I’m making much progress at all, as you can see.”

Marilla said, with a rueful smile, “I don’t expect to be of much assistance, I’m sorry to say.”

“I don’t think _any_ amount of help is going to do _me _any good,” Anne groaned. “All this talk of _love_ and _romance_ has once more reinforced the fact that I am wholly unsuited for the — well, for the _entire_ institution of marriage and courting. Though, to be fair, I suppose I never expected to be. I never was a great beauty, or the heroine of a romance novel, and I don’t believe I’m ever destined to be one. _And_ there are certainly worse things than never falling in love — never finding my vocation, for one. And never having found kindred spirits, for another—”

“I won’t hear any of this nonsense,” Marilla said. “You’re still young, Anne, with so many years ahead of you. Give it time.”

She replied, perhaps too honestly, “All of this has me feeling terribly old, Marilla.” 

Marilla was silent, but there was a crease on her forehead and a curve to her mouth that told Anne that she was struggling with what to say. When she finally did speak, long seconds later, it was to say: “Don’t pay any mind to what Rachel said today, Anne. She means well, but she can often be... misguided at the best of times.”

“But what if she’s right?” Anne asked, voice hushed. It was the first time she had said it aloud, even to herself, and was embarrassed to hear her voice crack and feel her eyes burn. “What if Charlie’s—”

“Oh, _fiddlesticks_,” Marilla said, with some of her usual fire. “I don’t think there _is_ a right answer — at least, not the way Rachel pretends there is. I think it is up to you to decide what you wish to make of your life, and who to spend it with. Matthew and I... we didn’t have that luxury, when we were growing up. Circumstances demanded that we stay at Green Gables and farm the land as we always had. Circumstances demanded that we stay close instead of going off and living lives that we may have otherwise lived. We’re grateful that it happened, of course, but that’s why it’s so important to us that you have _agency_ in your life, Anne.”

Anne was out of her chair in a heartbeat, wrapping her arms around Marilla. Marilla, who was so warm and sturdy and loving, and who clutched Anne just as tightly in response.

“I feel as if things have been out of my control, lately,” Anne confessed. From the moment Charlie’s notice had been posted, it was as if the dominoes had begun to fall, one after another. She was only left to watch, powerless as everything changed: as the girls around her pushed her in Charlie’s direction; as Mrs. Lynde took it upon herself to inform Marilla and likely all of Avonlea; and as her friendship with Gilbert transformed into something strange and wrong and _sad_.

“You’re a strong girl,” Marilla said, “with such an ability to change the world around you. I think everything will be just fine, if you let it be.” Her voice was firm and confident, as if Marilla believed every word she said with every ounce of her being.

And, somehow, Anne found that she believed her too.

&

When Monday came, she found Gilbert.

She woke at the crack of dawn, as the first rays of light began cresting the horizon. By the time the sky was a rich pink, only just beginning to fade into blue, she was already dressed (hair carefully braided, green skirt fluttering around her knees) and out the door. Her breath misted in the frigid morning air, little clouds that spun and spiralled away as she marched forward, ice crackling under her boots. The Haunted Woods were still and silent around her, filled with both solemnity and potential. If she listened closely, she could almost hear the beginnings of spring: the quiet rustling of branches, the soft twittering of birds.

The schoolhouse was empty when she arrived, save for Gilbert. He sat at his desk as he always did, illuminated by the morning light, surrounded by books and papers. In the dim room, he looked somehow soft, curled in a brown wool sweater, hair sticking up at the top of his head.

He looked startled when he looked up to find her standing over his desk. There were tired bags under his eyes, an old sort of weariness in his expression, but he suddenly looked very young.

“Can I talk to you?” she asked, nodding towards the door. 

“Of course,” he said, expression open and raw.

Footsteps moving in synchrony, floorboards creaking as they went, they passed Miss Stacy on their way out, and she gave them a secret little smile that Anne dared not examine too closely. Down the steps and across the stream, they walked through the snow-coated fields, paths meandering but purposeful, Gilbert always a step or two behind her.

And when the schoolhouse was a far-off memory, Anne was nearly distracted by the way mist curled around the hills, distant forests fading like memories. But she turned to Gilbert, whose hands were firmly shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched and expression guarded. 

“I wanted to apologise for what I said last week,” she said, all in one anxious breath. He looked shocked for a second, and then he looked like he wanted to argue, but she pressed on, “I was rude. And unkind. And a bad friend. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that, when you were just trying to—”

“No,” Gilbert said quickly, shaking his head. “I need to apologise to _you_, Anne. I was completely out of line. I shouldn’t — I was trying to interfere when I shouldn’t have. Charlie... he’s a good guy.”

“Right,” Anne said, impatiently, “I’m aware.”

“Right,” he said, looking pained.

There was an uncomfortable silence, but she forged on: “I still firmly believe that you don’t have to apologise, Gilbert. Truly. I understand why you did what you did, and I should never have reacted like that. I don’t know what came over me.”

He offered her a smile, then — a tiny, crooked thing. “I think we’ll just have to agree to disagree, then,” Gilbert said.

“Which is nothing new for the two of us,” Anne said.

“Definitely not,” he agreed.

She suddenly found that she was grinning back at him, cheeks nearly hurting from the force of it. Gilbert looked at her with the same dazed wonderment that he wore on that cold day in Charlottetown, when they had crossed paths unexpectedly under the pale light of the sun — both trudging along on their separate journeys, which would take them oceans apart. There had been so much grief, then; enough pain and regret that they were both drowning in it. But, for that moment, everything had seemed nearly perfect.

Gilbert pulled off a mitten and extending his bare hand. “Friends?” he said.

“I can spell it out, if you’d like,” she replied, and he only huffed out a laugh.

But when she clasped his hand firmly, his skin warm and dry against hers, there was an uneasy angle to his eyebrows, an earnest curve to his mouth. Gilbert said, “I mean it, Anne. No matter what — I want to be friends. You’re too important to me, and it’s been awful not talking to you.”

“Me too,” she said. His irises were such a soft, gentle brown. His eyelashes were so long. And even now that she had fought against her own skewed perception and cursed at her unwieldy feelings for him, she couldn’t help but think that there was something resembling romance in his eyes. She looked away, back to the schoolhouse, and could see their classmates meandering to class. “I just want to go back to the way things were,” she said, though it felt oddly like a lie. 

“Me too,” he echoed and, when she glanced back, the smile he gave her was almost sad.

But they were friends again, and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for reading, and sorry this took so long -- it's been a crazy few months and this chapter really ran away from me. But season 3 really inspired me to get my act together (slowly), so here I am! Hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> Another HUGE thanks to everyone who left comments on the last chapter. I'm awful at responding (I promise to be better this time!!!) but they all really mean the world to me.
> 
> Edit: Had a bit of posting weirdness so I ended up deleting the chapter and reposting. Sorry to anyone who experienced any confusion/spamming because of it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, Anne Clan!!!! Hope you enjoyed :)


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